Dimensional Summoner: Infinite Growth in a Leveling Apocalypse

The restricted floor had a different ledger, a different clerk, and almost no voices.

"Full holdings," the clerk said, examining the deep-blue token. "Contract-earned, not sponsored."

"Carrow Deep."

She paused, then looked at me over her reading glasses. "That was quick."

"It did not feel quick."

"It rarely does from inside." She turned the ledger around for my signature. "Nothing leaves this floor. Handwritten notes are permitted unless a file is marked in red. Private company reports may be summarized but not copied wholesale. The companies surrendered them under contract, and we prefer that they continue surrendering things."

"Understood."

"Regional records are in the second aisle. Failed expeditions in the fourth. Resource processing in the sixth. Monster-behaviour files are in the nine hundreds." She tapped the end of her pencil against the ledger. "Half of those are wrong. The reliable ones have three signatures on the verification sheet."

I spent the first hour learning how to read the room.

Everything on that floor had been written by a person. It was not System truth. It was a collection of frightened survivors, cautious professionals, companies that had omitted inconvenient details, and archivists trying to work out which was which.

Carrow Deep had cured me of trusting a neat diagram merely because someone had printed it. I checked dates, authors, later inspections, and whether anyone else had survived long enough to disagree.

I tested the class question once.

One shelf held records on Beast Callers, Spirit Binders, construct conjurers, and a woman in the south who had summoned the same stone servant for more than a year. None mentioned real people taken from other worlds. There was nothing about grade-first selection, Preserved Signatures, Resonance, or a manifestation returning to the exact instant it had left.

There was nothing because the class had never existed in the game, and nobody in Greyhaven had seen another one.

I put the conventional summoner file back.

That brief search still taught me something useful about the Archive. The conventional records were arranged by what an ability produced—beasts, spirits, constructs—not by what the user called the class. I checked the cross-references for dimensional, spatial, and temporary manifestations as well. They led to teleportation techniques, projected bodies, and mana-built copies. Every result failed at the same point: none of them involved a real person continuing an independent life in another world.

There was no hidden page waiting for the correct search term. If I wanted answers about Blind Call, I would have to obtain them by surviving enough Calls to observe the rules myself.

My immediate problem was physical. The Origin Vessel Reforging Art was an extraordinary technique trapped inside a body whose foundation still carried Frail Body, Weak Constitution, and Poor Coordination. I could endure the circulations. Endurance was not the same as having organs and connective tissue capable of surviving faster progress.

The public Archive had already pointed me toward the flooded agricultural zone earlier that week. Its file mentioned a body-tempering plant, incomplete harvest records, and movement beneath the water. The restricted continuation finally gave the plant a name.

MARROWLACE.Alchemical root network. Pale, interwoven, sub-substrate. Found beneath drowned crop beds and greenhouse foundations in original soil rather than deposited silt.

I read the verified properties three times.

Properly harvested and professionally refined, Marrowlace strengthened connective tissue, supported organ resilience, and helped naturally weak bodies tolerate sustained energy refinement.

The last phrase could have been written for the Art.

The useful paragraph was followed immediately by several reasons nobody had emptied the zone already.

Raw Marrowlace was unstable and medically dangerous. Once cut from its bed, it began dying from the exposed face. Untreated floodwater contaminated it. Clean water leached out the active compounds. Warmth and drying killed it faster. Darkened root could be inert or poisonous, with no reliable visual difference between them.

It matured slowly, appeared in small quantities, and had to be removed with part of its original substrate intact.

The people physically weak enough to benefit most were the least likely to survive harvesting it. Stronger groups could earn more elsewhere without carrying a toxic root through predator-infested water.

The predator file had three verification signatures.

SILTWAKE LURKERS.Level 18–20. Amphibious. Long-bodied, flat-headed, negatively buoyant. Capable of remaining motionless along a flooded bed for hours.

Their primary sense was pressure.

The reports agreed that Siltwake Lurkers reacted to water displacement and local pressure changes. They did not need clear sight, airborne sound, or scent. Several had attacked concealed targets who produced no visible or audible signal above the surface.

Predator’s Veil suppressed what I emitted while moving carefully. Sound, scent, presence. It did not stop my body from pushing two metres of water aside.

Feline Grace could place my feet precisely, but every precise step still moved water. Feline Senses might give me a direction in bad visibility, but silt-clouded floodwater would reduce everything to shapes at arm’s length.

The failed-harvest report made the distinction worse.

Five people had entered at night with no lights, no talking, no exposed metal, and a concealment specialist maintaining his skill. Three died in the first eleven seconds. One of the two survivors wrote the report eight days later.

We produced no sound above the surface and no light. I cannot state with certainty what alerted them. Both attacks came from ahead of and beside our line rather than behind it. I believe they read the displacement created at our entry, but I cannot prove this and will not encourage another party to die on my guess.

I trusted that paragraph more because he had refused to turn grief into certainty.

Two other reports confirmed that the water could remain perfectly still for hours before a Lurker moved. Neither crew had reached the greenhouse. One withdrew after spotting a long depression crossing the silt beneath them; the other lost a pack animal at the flooded boundary and abandoned the attempt before a person entered. They added no solution, but they removed one comforting possibility: the failed harvest had not encountered an unusually aggressive group. The behaviour belonged to the zone.

I copied the attached map by hand. Before leaving the table, I dealt with the three points that had been waiting since the raise.

[Unallocated Attribute Points: 3.]

My weaknesses had always worked together. Correcting them the same way still made sense.

[Attribute Allocation Confirmed.]

[Strength: 14 → 15.]

[Vitality: 15 → 16.]

[Agility: 16 → 17.]

[Unallocated Attribute Points: 0.]

Warmth moved through my muscles and settled. Standing from the Archive chair became fractionally easier. My breathing deepened. The cuts on my palm and forearm remained exactly as sore as they had been before.

Three points had improved the body. They had not repaired its foundation.

The final sheet marked one surviving Marrowlace bed beneath the eastern greenhouse. A dotted line showed the failed party’s approach. Across the bottom, written hard enough to score the next page, were eight words.

THEY DID NOT SEE US. THE WATER TOLD THEM.

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